Our Story

When the Stove Grew Cold

The scent of pandan drifted through the bedroom window, carried on a cool December breeze, and I was slammed back into a memory so vivid it made my chest ache. Mom, sitting on a small wooden stool by the old clay stove, her hands covered in glutinous rice and coconut milk, stirring her famous biko. Steam curled up around her face, softening the lines around her eyes as she smiled.

"Come sit, my child," she’d say, patting the empty stool beside her. "Taste this — I added extra ube just for you." But when I blinked and looked again, the stool was empty. The stove was cold, and the only thing left was the ghost of that sweet, familiar smell.

She’d been gone for a year this Christmas — thirty-sixty-five days of waking up and remembering, of reaching for the phone to tell her something good, then stopping when the silence hit. But it felt like just yesterday we were walking through the market, her hand wrapped tightly around mine, and she’d pulled me close to say, "Never forget that I love you, no matter where I go." I’d laughed then, squeezed her hand, and said, "Where else would you go, Ma?" I never thought those would be the last words we’d share before the accident — before the ambulance’s siren blared through our quiet street and took her away forever.

One afternoon, while cleaning out her old wardrobe (a task I’d been putting off for months, afraid of what I’d find), my fingers brushed against something small and hard at the back of a drawer. It was a wooden box — the one she’d kept hidden under her bed when I was little, saying it held "the most important things in the world." I fumbled with the latch, my hands shaking, and lifted the lid. Inside, tucked between crumpled pieces of tissue, were dozens of little scraps of paper — her notes.

I pulled out the first one, the ink faded but still legible. "October 12 — My child’s first birthday. She cried when all the guests sang, but the moment I held her up to blow out the candle, she smiled so big her eyes crinkled shut. I want to keep that smile forever." My throat tightened. I remembered that day — the pink cake, the streamers, the way she’d kissed my forehead until I stopped crying.

The next note was from when I was seven: "March 8 — She failed her math test. She tried to hide it in her backpack, but her shoulders were so tense I knew something was wrong. I didn’t scold her — I made her favorite ube halaya and told her that mistakes are just steps to getting better. She hugged me so tight I could barely breathe." I’d forgotten that — all I remembered was feeling like a failure, but Mom had made it feel like the smallest thing in the world.

As I read through more notes, tears streamed down my face, dripping onto the paper and blurring the words. "June 15 — She graduated from elementary! She walked across the stage like she owned the world. I’m so proud I could burst." "August 20 — She left for college today. I didn’t cry in front of her, but as soon as she drove away, I broke down. She’s growing up so fast." "November 3 — She called to say she got her first job. I danced around the kitchen by myself — my baby is going to change the world."

Each note was a piece of our life together, a moment she’d captured so she’d never forget — and now, so I’d never forget. My chest felt so tight I could barely breathe. Why did she have to leave so soon? Why didn’t she get to see me walk into my first day at work? Why didn’t she get to taste the biko I tried to make last month (it was a mess, just like she knew it would be)? Why didn’t she get to see all the dreams we’d talked about — the house with a garden, the trips to the beach, the day I’d have a child of my own to love — come true?

That night, I wrapped myself in her old blanket (it still smelled like her lavender shampoo) and stepped onto the balcony. The sky was clear, and there was one star brighter than the rest — it hung low over the house, like it was watching over us. I whispered to the wind, my voice cracking: "I haven’t forgotten you, Ma. I never will. I remember the biko, the market walks, the way you’d sing me to sleep when I was scared. And I’ll never forget your notes — they’re the only thing that makes me feel like you’re still here, holding my hand."

The wind picked up, carrying that faint scent of pandan again. For a second, I could almost feel her presence beside me. But then it was gone, and all I was left with was the cold, and the sadness — a rain that never stops, that soaks into your bones and stays there, reminding you of everything you’ve lost… and everything you’ll never get to share.